The Feed

Let’s talk about balance. Not the yoga kind (though shout-out to the people who can tree-pose without looking like a windblown scarecrow).I mean life  balance—the kind that shifts, renegotiates itself, and occasionally disappears like your favorite pen when you need it most. Here’s the thing: balance is not a fixed destination. It’s not a trophy you win and display on a shelf. It’s more like a traveling circus act—sometimes graceful, sometimes chaotic, always requiring a litt

Stop auditioning for other people’s approval. You don’t need to shrink, soften, or sand down your edges. The people who matter will love you exactly as you are, and the ones who don’t… well, they can go find a hobby. When we’re younger, we contort ourselves into shapes that don’t fit — boxes we think we should  squeeze into just to belong. And I get it. Everyone wants their person, their girl gang, their mothership. We’re wired for connection, and sometimes that longing makes

Some weekends are just… weekends. And then there are the magical unicorn weekends where the universe aligns, the calendar cooperates, and suddenly you’re celebrating Easter, spring break, and your daughter’s birthday all at once. A combo platter of joy. A celebration trifecta. A mom’s dream. This year, I hit the jackpot. My girl came home — my chick back in the nest — and honestly, that alone could’ve been the whole story. There’s something about having your grown kid walk th

Every year, as April Fool’s Day rolls around, the internet dusts off its theories about where the holiday came from. France changing its calendar. Medieval literature. Spring festivals full of mischief. Honestly, the historians can keep debating, because in my family, the origin story is simple. April Fool’s Day began with my dad. He didn’t just enjoy the holiday — he thrived  on it. He treated April 1st like it was his personal Olympics, and he trained year-round. Meanwhile,

In case you somehow missed my subtle  hints (wink), I’ve written a book. Or two. Or… listen, at this point I’ve lost count and I’m just rolling with it. And while this whole author adventure has brought me joy, chaos, and a newfound respect for anyone who has ever wielded a red pen professionally, there was one thing I absolutely did not  see coming: The reunion tour. I’m talking: My kindergarten teacher My 3rd‑grade teacher Folks from my old neighborhood The entire T‑Bell cr

St. Patrick’s Day is creeping up again, which means it’s time for me to lean all the way into my Irish heritage—the freckles, the pale skin, the whole McGee lineage on my dad’s side. If the name didn’t give it away, my melanin-deficient complexion certainly does. I haven’t made it to Ireland yet (bucket list item # 47 , right between “learn to make croissants” and “stop apologizing for things that aren’t my fault”), but you better believe I’m working on it. 🍀 The McGee Lega

I was raised in the small town of Mt. Carmel, Tennessee — a place so woven into the fabric of who I am that I sometimes think my bones are made of its red clay and my heart still beats in rhythm with those Appalachian hills. My parents moved us there when I was five, and from the moment my feet hit that Tennessee soil, my childhood unfolded like something out of a wholesome 80s movie. We lived in a middle‑class neighborhood where the kids roamed in packs, organized by age and

There are chapters of motherhood you think you’ll remember forever—the big ones, the loud ones, the milestone ones. But it’s the quiet snapshots that sneak up on you years later and take your breath away. I’ve been a single parent since my daughter was two, and while some people may have tilted their heads with that poor Kaylin  look, I never once felt poor. I felt chosen. I felt entrusted. I felt like I’d been handed the greatest gift of my life and told, “This one’s yours—l

(A Love Letter to the Quiet Feelings of Loud Women) Let’s talk about feelings — specifically, the ones we don’t talk about. Because for all my big energy, big voice, big opinions, and big “I will absolutely tell the waiter this is not medium‑rare,” there’s one thing I’m surprisingly quiet about: My own hurt feelings. Yep. The woman who can cross‑examine a brick wall suddenly turns into a Victorian ghost when someone she loves accidentally steps on her heart. I’ll get my feel

Please be patient with me — I’m from the 1900s. Not 1900, but the 1900s. And not to brag, but I was alive when you could slam a phone down to make a point. A real receiver. A real cord. A real “thunk” when I slammed it down.  It was glorious. As women in our 50s, 60s and on, we’ve lived through a lot. We’ve earned every laugh line, every story, and yes… every moment of “now what was I saying?” So, here are a few things our generation would love to share with the next. 1. Memo

Do you ever catch yourself dragging work stress home like an overstuffed tote bag you never asked for? In this dog‑eat‑dog world—where emails chase you like they’re auditioning for a horror movie—it’s way too easy to let work sneak into your personal life and start rearranging the furniture. Look, work stress is inevitable. But letting it hijack your happiness? Absolutely not. You deserve to be mentally steady, physically well, and emotionally available to the people who love

Galentine’s Day — that glorious, unofficial holiday dedicated to celebrating the women who keep us sane — rolled around again, and this year marked my second annual celebration with the Fab Five… minus one. One of our girls had a family emergency and was sorely missed, but she was with us in spirit (and will absolutely be back next year). This year’s adventure was a sip‑and‑shop , which sounded perfect in theory. And while the sipping was delightful and the shopping was cute,

My mother always wanted to write a book. She never got the chance to finish it, but I read her pages she started years ago. And let me tell you — she had something special brewing. A wonderful story, a spark of imagination, a voice that deserved to be heard. I wish she’d had the time, space, or maybe just the encouragement to keep going. Maybe that’s why, as the years rolled on, a story started forming in my own head. It lived there rent‑free for a long time, popping up at in

I am the mother of three furbabies — and the “grandmother” of one — and each of them has carved out their own place in our little family. Henry, my 11‑year‑old Beagle, is the leader of the pack. He has the sweetest soul, the gentlest eyes, and an appetite that knows no limits. Then there’s Daisy, my 9‑year‑old Cavapoo who was supposed  to be a lap dog but instead became the assertive boss babe of the household. Kevin, my 5‑year‑old Frenchton, is my shadow and unapologetic mom

Somewhere along the way, adulthood tricked us into thinking we were supposed to be serious, responsible, and immune to childish delights. And yet, let a single snowflake drift past the window and suddenly every grown adult is standing there like a golden retriever who just heard the word “walk.” Let’s be honest: we never outgrow the thrill of a snow day. We just get better at pretending we’re not checking the weather app every 12 minutes like it owes us money. The Evolution o

Galentine’s Day is almost here, and if you’re wondering what on earth that is, let me enlighten you. It started as a joke on Parks and Recreation  and has since become a full‑blown holiday — February 13th, the sacred day of celebrating female friendship. It’s basically Valentine’s Day without the pressure, the prix‑fixe menus, or the existential dread. Just women supporting women, laughing until we snort, and having fun because we deserve it. And the world has noticed . Retai

Every so often, someone asks the age‑old question: “Can girls and boys actually be just friends?” And every time, I want to hand them my life like a PowerPoint presentation and say, “Exhibit A through Z: Yes. Obviously. Next question.” Because the proof is in the pudding — and in my case, the pudding is a 20‑year friendship with my buddy Andy. No blurred lines, no weirdness, no secret pining. Just two humans who genuinely enjoy each other’s company and occasionally roast each

Who would have thought lawyers would find an untapped market in silver splitters? If you’re wondering what that means, it’s another phrase for gray divorce—a term coined by Dr. Susan L. Brown and Dr. I-Fen Lin in 2012 to describe marriages that end after the age of 50. The numbers tell the story: according to the U.S. Census Bureau, divorce rates among people over 50 have roughly doubled since 1990. While divorce rates in other age groups have stayed stable or even declined,

You are not everyone’s cup of tea—and honestly, do you even want to be? Tea is lovely, sure, but so is champagne, and nobody’s out here trying to pour that into every mug in the break room. When you’re young, you chase approval like it’s a limited-edition lip gloss. You want to fit in, blend in, smooth out your edges so no one gets poked. But the older you get, the more you realize that being universally liked is… suspicious. If everyone likes you, you’re probably people-plea

This year was our first blended Christmas — my 24‑year‑old daughter, his 17‑year‑old daughter, and the two of us trying to create something that felt like home for everyone. We’d already survived (and shockingly, thrived ) through a blended Thanksgiving, so I went into Christmas feeling optimistic. I told myself I’d embrace the change, release expectations, and focus on connection. My only real goal was simple: I wanted everyone to feel loved and like they belonged. And I’m n